


Psychophysical

by Goumaden



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (opens my mouth and all of my teeth fall out), Bodyswap, Crimson Flower Route, Ferdibert Week 2020 (Fire Emblem), M/M, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), pining yearning longing et al, set so nebulously post game that the setting is never clarified or mentioned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25883773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goumaden/pseuds/Goumaden
Summary: "I am enabling your severe caffeine addiction," Ferdinand says with a sigh. "Once this mess has been sorted out, we are going to have a long discussion about your unhealthy habits.""Duly noted," says Hubert. "I have several objections about your midday skincare routine.""Hush," says Ferdinand, but as he turns away Hubert can see that he is smiling. It's a terrible expression on Hubert's features—tender and vulnerable and compassionate—and it makes the heart that is not his own ache in his unfamiliar chest.Late submission for Ferdibert Week 2020's "Bodyswap" prompt.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 36
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

Hubert awakens refreshed in the hour before dawn. It's a lustrous, velvet-dark night outside, the sky just barely beginning to tint shades of red and orange at the horizon. The early autumn breeze blows the damp scent of overnight rain and moist earth through his open window, and he instinctively turns his face to his pillow and huddles deeper beneath his blankets to ward off the chill it brings.

These are the first three signs that something is terribly wrong.

The most benign offender among the list of anomalies is the hour at which he has awoken. He can't recall a single night in his entire life in which he's considered himself "well-rested" upon awakening, much less at such an early hour of the day. To call himself a morning person would be a dusty and desiccated joke. At best, it would make Lady Edelgard force a polite, unwilling smile. At worst, it would….

 _Unimportant, and completely irrelevant to the matter at hand_. The second anomaly, the open window, is significantly more severe than the first. Leaving a window open overnight in one's bedchamber serves no purpose but to invite assassination. Worse still, Hubert has no windows anywhere in his quarters. His bedroom and study are both locked away in the deepest interior of the castle. The breeze playing across the back of his bare neck chills him more than he is willing to admit.

The final anomaly is the bed itself—Hubert cannot remember falling asleep in it. He was working only a few hours previously at his desk, workspace well-lit with candles, still dressed for the day, when…

…He must have fallen asleep? But that explains neither the open window, nor the bed, nor the bone-deep satiated satisfaction of a luxuriously long rest. Without opening his eyes and still feigning the slow, steady breathing rhythm of one deeply asleep, he prods with his magic at the corners of the room for any sort of human or magical presence. There is none. _Good_. He's alone. Whatever situation he's found himself in, he has yet to be fully captured or restrained. He needs to analyze the layout of the room and escape quickly before his position is compromised.

Hubert opens his eyes and sits up, disentangling himself from the sheets and swinging his legs off the side of the bed in one smooth, fluid motion. His pajamas are plaid-patterned and not his own. The bedroom he finds himself in is tastefully furnished and not his own. There is a long twisted plait of penny-bright copper hair falling over one of his shoulders, and it _is most certainly not his own_.

When he looks down to his palms, his hands are free from knotted scars and chemical burns. He finds calluses instead. Well-kept nails. A stronger and more capable grip than what he's used to. There's no need to look into the tiny mirror over the washbasin—at this point, Hubert already _knows,_ the jagged rock in the pit of his stomach growing ever larger as it gashes his innards to shreds—but he does so anyway.

Ferdinand von Aegir stares back at him with jewel toned eyes. When Hubert lifts his hands to untie the ribbon at the end of his braided hair, so too does Ferdinand. When he marvels at his reflection, leaning in more closely to brush feather-light fingers across his handsome features, Ferdinand mirrors his actions in turn. He prods at his soft, full lips and his immaculately groomed eyebrows. He taps his nails over the hard ridges of bone at the bottoms of his eye sockets.

His gaze drifts down to Ferdinand's neck, the uncovered slice of collarbone exposed by his pajama shirt, and his mouth goes dry. He's never seen Ferdinand in such a state of _intimacy_ before. With his hair mussed from sleep, half-tangled into a braid still, and an unusually pensive expression on his face, he looks soft and bare and vulnerable. It has nothing in common with his usual desperate, late-night fantasies, but—

But—

He shakes the thought from his mind. If Hubert is in Ferdinand's body, then someone else _(The culprit behind this exchange? Ferdinand?)_ is in Hubert's body. Without Hubert's arcane knowledge of dark magic, they'll get themselves killed by his security measures as soon as they wake up from their nap and step away from his desk. He can't let that happen. He needs his body intact and unharmed.

To be stuck as Ferdinand von Aegir forever, however tantalizing the physical appeal, would be an _utter disaster_.

Hubert dresses himself hastily, pulling on a high-collared jacket over a clean black shirt and a pair of Ferdinand's trousers. For good measure, he knots a lacy jabot around his neck, and then tops off the Prime Minister Aegir charade by running his fingers through the soft hair that isn't his, letting it fall free in gentle waves around his face. He laces his feet into the well-worn leather boots next to the entryway and stalks off to his own study in the bowels of the castle.

———

Hubert quickly and painfully learns that Ferdinand has no capacity for dark magic. Mires and miasmas prove impossible to summon, instead manifesting as tiny black and purple lightning bolts that crawl across his skin and fizz off of his fingertips with a nasty, numbing jolt. His fingers are a few millimeters thicker and a centimeter shorter than they should be. It takes him six clumsy attempts to correctly disable the complex locking mechanism on the door to his study.

When he steps inside, he's met with his own eyes staring back at him. The other Hubert—the person in Hubert's body—sits ramrod straight at his desk with their hands folded neatly in front of them, their off-color sickly gold gaze leveled at Ferdinand. Or, in this case, the real Hubert.

It's complicated.

"Hubert," the other Hubert says simply, with an unguarded, genuine smile. "I have been waiting for nearly half an hour. I do not wish to unwittingly trigger any of the traps you use to protect against intruders. To do so would be to risk damaging both of our lives, as well as your work."

Hubert thanks his most cursed and infernal fell stars that Ferdinand's always been quicker on the uptake than he acts. Then he pauses—there's a peculiar sort of willing trust present in this situation that's been laid at his feet. For Ferdinand to realize the peril of waking alone in an unfamiliar body in a dangerous location and to lay his faith utterly in the real Hubert to assure his safety? It's a precious gift. A certitude that the Ferdinand before the war never would have granted to him. He feels his cheeks flush far more easily than they ever would have in his own body.

"Ferdinand," Hubert begins, and then colors an even deeper shade of pink when he realizes that he's speaking in Ferdinand's pulled-caramel voice. He clears his throat. "Ferdinand—I assume that is who I am speaking to, yes? No one else would deliver such an over-explanatory monologue as a greeting."

Ferdinand pulls a wry, self-deprecating smile over his lips. "Says the man wearing the only three articles of black clothing that I own. You give yourself away more easily than I do myself."

 _Ridiculous. Black is fashionable, functional, and one of the few colors that does not soil easily._ Hubert easily sidesteps the jab and presses on. "As the castle does not seem to be in an uproar, I will assume that this is a singular, isolated incident."

Ferdinand nods. "Do you have any idea of the cause? I do not wish to be rude, but this—" and he spreads his gloved hands wide, gestures at himself and the surrounding area "—is not exactly a suitable role for me to play."

 _Oh_ , thinks Hubert, and the dried-up jerky of his heart shrivels and rots away even further. _Of course not._ There's no way anyone would wish to be trapped in his gangly and menacing body and then locked away to work in the dark. Ferdinand must be used to his own classically beautiful profile, his silken hair, his becoming features and his well-muscled limbs. To look in the mirror and see Hubert, resplendent in all of his ugliness….

His own appearance has never bothered him before, but he sees Ferdinand tilt his own chin up to meet his gaze and it bothers him now. It bothers him immensely.

"…Not yet," Hubert finally answers, snapping his focus back to Ferdinand's question. "This is a situation best handled one step at a time." He flexes his left hand—Ferdinand's hand—in front of him, clenching his fingers into a fist and splaying them out again to feel the flux of power in the room. "To begin, I'll need to siphon my own magic from your current body in order to disable my wards."

"How can I aid this process?" Ferdinand asks.

"Don't resist," Hubert responds flatly.

He takes one step into the room, then two. He raises his arm to chest height, hand pointing towards Ferdinand, and then he _grips_ and _pulls_ , noble fingers curled into claws around what must be his own wet, beating heart. A piece of something comes loose, and Ferdinand lets out a strangled whimper. He pulls it. It stretches, putty and taffy in his hands, and Ferdinand _moans,_ eyes rolling back in Hubert's head, and then—

It snaps free and coils up in his palm. Ferdinand heaves a great jagged sigh. Hubert hefts the weight of the curl of magic he's taken and murmurs, "Above adequate."

Ferdinand lets his head fall upon Hubert's desk and mutters something distinctly ignoble. Hubert ignores him. He laces a web of miasma, draping the woven net over the walls, the floor, the papers and books on his desk. It sparkles with glittering points of silver light where it touches his existing spellwork. Once he's covered the entire room, he takes a deep breath and _drags_. There's a soft, muffled puff of air. The entire room shifts half an inch to the left and re-focuses into clarity, and—

———

Hubert wakes up on the floor with his head propped up on an uncomfortable surface and a pounding, blinding migraine. He cracks his eyes open into painful slits. He can tell that he's still in Ferdinand's body from his long and sumptuous eyelashes alone.

"That was ill-advised," his voice says to him. Then there's a cup of water being pressed to his lips. "Drink."

Hubert says something in Ferdinand's distinguished, dulcet tones along the lines of "Mmmmmmmrghghrgh", sips the water, and then realizes that his head rests in his own bony lap. He sits up with a jolt and curses every single saint he can name when his head swims.

"All of your wards seem to have been tied down," Ferdinand informs him. "However, you are to never do that again. You cannot just _expect_ my body to act as a willing conduit for your high-level spellwork. How would _you_ feel if I used your body to run a marathon?"

"Bad," croaks Hubert as he takes the cup and drains the rest of its contents. "I apologize."

"As you should." Ferdinand nods, but there's an unexpectedly soft look in his sole visible eye. It's an expression that Hubert hasn't willingly made since he turned ten years old. He grimaces, and Ferdinand sees his face and frowns in turn.

"For the next step, what did you have in mind?" It's clearly one of Ferdinand's opinionated rhetorical questions, as he barrels on and says "I can't be seen about the Imperial Palace in such a state."

Simultaneously, Hubert replies, "We need an audience with Lady Edelgard immediately."

"You cannot conceivably imitate any of my mannerisms," Ferdinand counters. "There is no way I can present my body before Edelgard when I look as though I've been possessed by a particularly malignant ghost of a drowned widow or by the Opera Phantom."

" _Lady_ Edelgard," Hubert corrects irritably. "You cannot refer to Her Majesty using my voice in such a _disrespectful manner_."

Something fierce and bright sparks behind Ferdinand's eyes, and he proclaims in Hubert's elegantly disinterested sneer, "I am Hubert von Vestra, esteemed Minister of the Imperial Household. _Lady Edelgard_ has sub-par taste in both tea and parlor games."

Hubert clenches his teeth. "Is that the case? If so, I am _Ferdinand von Aegir_ and I love my horses so much that I decided to grow a mane to match them."

"Tilt your chin up more," says Ferdinand-Hubert. "You are too used to looking down at people."

He stands, offering Hubert-Ferdinand a hand up from the floor. "Edelgard has never once risen at dawn and her rest is well-deserved. Allow me to dress myself properly and then you may have your audience."

The most irritating thing is that Ferdinand is correct on every account. Hubert rubs his temples and acquiesces.

———

Half an hour later, he finds himself pressed into an armchair as Ferdinand looms over him, rubbing something cool and moist into the skin of his face. He shifts to ask a question, lashes fluttering, and Ferdinand pushes him back by the shoulder with his free hand.

"Keep your eyes closed," Ferdinand murmurs. "Don't even _think_ of moving."

He'd be rather irritated with how quickly Ferdinand had picked up on Hubert's delicate speech patterns and threatening intonations if he wasn't doing such a damn good job at it. An adequate deception is the most he can hope for in lieu of an outright solution to their shared predicament.

Ferdinand dusts his eyelids with a powdered brush and steps back with a smug aura of self-satisfaction. "Done."

Hubert picks up the hand mirror Ferdinand has deposited in his lap, bringing one hand to his cheek to marvel at his work. Ferdinand is radiant on the worst of days. Given the extra attention, he's nothing short of stunning. He's so handsome that it hurts to look at his own reflection—Hubert feels as if his heart may give out, exhausted and overcome by longing, by the time he tears his gaze away.

Ferdinand doesn't seem to care. He hands Hubert a hairbrush. "Any style will suffice."

"You act as if your hair deserves the same attention as Lady Edelgard's," Hubert grumbles, running the brush through an errant knotted curl. He wishes Ferdinand's hair wasn't so shiny and well cared for. He wishes it didn't smell of wisteria and hyacinths. He wishes the strands didn't slip silk-smooth through the hairbrush like water, and he absentmindedly wonders what they would feel like between his real fingertips. How his hair would look threaded through his grip. The kinds of noises Ferdinand would make if he were to tug it. 

He's grateful for his completely impassive expression as he braids Ferdinand's hair into a simple, elegant side braid that falls over one shoulder. Ferdinand hands him a red ribbon—one that matches the accents of the royal blue and gold formal jacket that he's been forced into—and Hubert accepts it with a begrudging sigh, tying it into a neat bow. He'd look the perfect picture of the Adrestian Prime Minister were it not for the hideous scowl glued to his downturned lips.

At least he's not the only one struggling with his facial expression. Ferdinand, admiring his handiwork, looks so genuinely pleased with himself that Hubert idly worries that his thin lips will split in half. He's never seen such a cheerful cast to his own features before. In a strange way, it's infectious. Ferdinand's _smiling_ at him, a solar eclipse against Hubert's pale skin and stark bone structure, and before Hubert even realizes what's happening he's been dragged back to his own chambers and has been coaxed into letting Ferdinand attire himself in a dark forest-green vest instead of Hubert's usual black.

He practices small, tentative smiles with Ferdinand's teeth and Ferdinand's eyes as they walk side by side to Edelgard's sitting room. If Ferdinand catches him in the act, he says nothing of it.

———

Edelgard sits in silence in front of her morning tea service. Her white hair, haloed by the sun, spills loose down to her waist. She's wrapped in a fluffy dressing gown with a sharp-edged sword barely skirting the definition of "ceremonial" laying across her lap. Across the table, Hubert and Ferdinand have settled themselves on an ornately upholstered sofa.

She sits regally for the telling of the story, but Hubert can see how tense she is. Her shoulders are rigid, and she's squeezing the hilt of her sword so tightly that her nails have tinted purple. "Ferdinand, you claim to be Hubert. Is this the case?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Hubert bows low to hide his scowl, one hand over his chest.

"Then I'm sure you don't mind answering a few of my questions." Edelgard stares him down, splintered ice in her violet eyes. "What was it you said to me the last time I was poisoned?"

Hubert meets her gaze steady and unafraid. "I said that I was going to kill the cook and serve his head to all of the other chefs on a platter." Next to him, he hears a politely choked off sound of surprise, and he adds, "I was nine years old. You were seven. It was an unintentional case of food poisoning."

"I see." Edelgard tilts her head noncommittally. "Of course, anyone could have done that research. Were I to grant you a vacation anywhere in the realm, where would you go?"

"Nowhere," he says flatly. "My decision is not made for the sake of duty or service, but because the place I wish to visit most does not yet exist."

Edelgard nods, and her grip slackens. She sets the sword aside. "One more, I believe. Let's see… How old were you the night that you vowed to me you would—"

And Hubert cuts her off, hissing a very ignoble interjection: "Fourteen. I was fourteen." He jerks his head minutely towards Ferdinand, seated to his left. _Don't bring up teenage embarrassments in front of him_.

Edelgard has to hide her smile behind the cup of tea she lifts to her lips. She raises one eyebrow archly, an unspoken question for Hubert. _Still hung up on him? Really?_

Hubert finds that he much preferred the previous interrogation to this one. In lieu of responding, he pours himself a cup of coffee from the tea service while pointedly avoiding Edelgard's gaze. He drains the contents in one long sip.

Then he promptly spits it straight back into the cup. It tastes _foul_ , dirt and dead leaves and bitter, burning acid all wrapped into the same horrific concoction. Someone in the kitchens must have brewed this far too long. They've burnt it. One of the servants has carelessly disrespected Her Majesty and they'll lose their job for it.

Ferdinand says, with an immense amount of shame crawling through his quiet confession, "I have a sweet tooth."

"I don't understand," Hubert says. "You've drunk coffee with me before on multiple occasions and never once complained. This must be a side effect of whatever magical ailment we've been affected by."

Softly—very, very softly—Ferdinand curls in on himself, curls away from Hubert, and speaks to the floor. "No, it's not."

It's only then that Hubert understands the full implications of what Ferdinand is suggesting.

He wants to sink into the sofa and die. He wants Edelgard to put a swift end to this conversation by stabbing him clean through with her sword. But most of all, he wants to rip out the bloodied, pulsing muscle of his own heart and present it to Ferdinand von Aegir. Ferdinand, a man so magnanimous and graceful he was willing to down at least two dozen cups of something he loathed just to spend time with Hubert. A man forgiving enough to do so without complaint even after Hubert had insulted him, beaten him, and attempted to mangle him for the better part of a school year and a five year long war. Someone charming and kind enough to inquire after Hubert's thoughts every single time they took tea together, even as the months blended into years.

He drags his white-gloved hands down his stupidly handsome face. Ferdinand's cheeks blush too easily—he's bright red all the way up to his ears.

Edelgard saves him before the seconds can tick into an eternity.

"As my Imperial Ministers, I trust you to resolve this predicament as quickly and efficiently as you can." She sets her teacup and saucer down on the low table between them with a sharp _clack_. Ferdinand and Hubert both jolt to attention.

"Yes, Lady Edelgard," says Ferdinand's voice.

"I will fix it, Edelgard," says Hubert's voice.

Edelgard pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration. "You are to secret yourself away until both of you are yourselves again. Hubert, seed the rumor that you've both left for missions away from Enbarr."

"It will be done." Hubert says, perhaps a touch too menacingly. Edelgard shifts to massaging her temples.

"Minister Vestra," she says, turning to Ferdinand, "stop acting so chipper. Slouch a bit more. Act as if you haven't gotten a good night's sleep in the past eight moons."

"And you, Prime Minister Aegir," she adds as she turns back to Hubert, "Why do you look as if your favorite horse just died? That's inexcusable. Pretend everyone you're speaking to is Bernadetta. No sneering. No looming. Are we clear?"

"I, ah, of course. Edelgard." Hubert squeezes out through gritted teeth, and it _hurts_ to say it, it's almost _unbelievably_ disrespectful—

"Anything for you, Your Majesty." Ferdinand intones smoothly. He rises to his feet and offers an understated bow, a small smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Hubert is going to _kill_ Ferdinand.

———

Hubert sorts paperwork in companionable silence with Ferdinand for the next several hours.

They've holed themselves up in Ferdinand's cozy office, Ferdinand with a stack of requisitions that need review and Hubert with five dusty books on magical toxicology and hex-breaking. Every so often, Ferdinand passes him a form and Hubert will sign "Ferdinand von Aegir" in a flourishing signature that comes naturally to his hand.

Whenever he catches Ferdinand flagging, he pours him another cup of coffee.

"This cannot be good for me," Ferdinand objects after Hubert innocuously pushes the third cup onto the corner of his desk.

"You slept for three hours last night at most and you've had a not-insignificant portion of your magical reserves pulled out unwillingly through your veins," Hubert counters.

"I am enabling your severe caffeine addiction," Ferdinand says with a sigh. "Once this mess has been sorted out, we are going to have a long discussion about your unhealthy habits."

"Duly noted," says Hubert. "I have several objections about your midday skincare routine."

"Hush," says Ferdinand, but as he turns away Hubert can see that he is smiling. It's a terrible expression on Hubert's features—tender and vulnerable and compassionate—and it makes the heart that is not his own ache in his unfamiliar chest.

———

The sun sets. The candles he's lit have not yet begun to burn low, but Hubert cannot stop yawning. His vision fuzzes pleasantly over the page and he re-reads the same paragraph once, twice, and then a third time before he realizes that he's languorously dozing off, comfortable and content in a way that's completely foreign to him.

To say that the feeling is strange would be an understatement. Hubert is used to red-eyed, catatonic exhaustion, a fatigue that sinks its claws deep into his bones that can only be countered by the jitter of caffeine-induced adrenaline. Indulging in the pleasure of natural, well-earned drowsiness after a long day feels heavenly. He lets his eyelids slip shut as he rests his cheek on his palm.

"Go to bed," Ferdinand murmurs. There's the feather-light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, hovering and unsure. It moves to caress his temple, tucking an errant stand of hair that's pulled free from the braid behind his ear.

Hubert only dares to open his eyes when it finally retracts. Ferdinand's an arm's length away from him, which is _far_ too close, and Hubert wishes he weren't meeting the gaze of his own countenance.

"I am a morning person," Ferdinand says, not unkindly. "Unlike you, I maintain the rigor of a set sleeping schedule. We can resume tomorrow after you've had a chance to rest."

Hubert pushes the bleariness back and sits up to correct his posture. "I can keep going. I—"

Ferdinand shakes his head decisively and Hubert shuts up. "You have already sabotaged and undermined your own body. I will not allow you to treat mine in the same manner."

"Then I have no counterarguments," says Hubert. He takes Ferdinand's proffered hand and pulls himself up from his chair. He allows Ferdinand to lead him down a deserted hallway of the castle to his own chambers, and he tries not to flush as Ferdinand fusses over his teeth, his face, his skin, his hair. Ferdinand smooths the bedsheets Hubert left crumpled, neatly hangs up the clothes Hubert discards in his closet, and tugs a fresh pair of plaid pajamas onto Hubert's unwilling body before Hubert is able to finish formulating his argument on why none of this is even remotely necessary.

———

Ferdinand is a whirlwind and an unstoppable force of nature. Hubert only manages to process that he's been left alone in Ferdinand's _bed_ —in his _body_ and wearing his _clothes_ —after he's already snuffed the lamp and swept out the door. 

Everything in the room smells of Ferdinand. His scent is pressed like rose petals into the sheets and pillowcase, floral shampoos and heady golden summer and the faintest woodsy, earthy underlayer of sweat. Hubert suddenly finds himself both painfully awake and not at all.

If he's asleep, he doesn't have to think about what he's doing. He can write the entire thing off as a lurid dream.

Yet simultaneously, he's captivated by the feeling of warm fingers on warmer skin, how his heart speeds up and his mouth salivates when he runs his hands across Ferdinand's muscular chest and down the flat planes of his stomach. He traces the ridges of a mottled scar along his ribs and a second that snakes down his hip. Hubert's left hand winds its way from his torso up into Ferdinand's hair, grasping silken fistfuls, and it's exquisitely painful when he pulls. There's a choked-off little moan caught in his throat, something broken and musical, and it's been minutes at most but he's already so hard that it _hurts_.

He parts his thighs, slips his other hand past the waistband of his pants and into his underwear, and wraps his fingers around Ferdinand's cock. The sensation is enough to make him moan again, he's so _sensitive_ , and he wonders if it's due to the intoxicating feedback loop he's created for himself or if Ferdinand only ever rarely jerks himself off, a matter of business rather than pleasure. The thought is hotter than it has any right to be. Has he taken anyone to bed since the end of the war? What kind of partner does he prefer? Is he experienced, or would he blush with embarrassment in response to Hubert's touch? If Hubert were to entangle his fingers in his hair, slip them into his mouth, or rake his nails across his tender chest as he does now, would he be able to extract the same noises from Ferdinand? Or would he have to sink to his knees and take him into his mouth, a leather-gloved hand stroking his—

He feels his orgasm crash over him, the relentless towering rush of a deep-sea wave, as he comes stickily over his elegant, noble fingers. His mind sputters out and fritzes into a pleasant grey fog. It's on autopilot that he wets a handkerchief in Ferdinand's washbasin and cleans himself as best as he can before collapsing back into bed, locks of hair pooling over his shoulders like bronze filigree.

To think too deeply of anything he's just done would be treacherous. But as Hubert mulls his half-conscious thoughts over, sinking into a soft, hazy sleep, he can't help but idly wonder at his own inexplicable prominence in his fantasies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t's completely the wrong day of Bert n Ferdie week for this, but God, Society, Quarantine, etc. are fucked enough that time no longer has any meaning!!!! 
> 
> My outline notes for this fic say "Why are you me? I'm me" about five different times.
> 
> Open invitation to throw rocks at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/shadowcathedraI)


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Ferdinand cracks one gummed-up eye open and instantly regrets his decision.

The room is completely, blessedly, _utterly_ dark.

That is the only positive on the self-assessment list he's carefully curated, so he leaves that train of thought to languish. Better not to think of the dull, dehydrated ache that pounds at his temples in time with his heartbeat, or the way his neck and vertebral column crack sickeningly as he sits up and folds back the single sheet and blanket Hubert keeps spread over his austere excuse for a bed. More beneficial in the long term to ignore how he had licentiously manhandled Hubert yesterday under the guise of concern for his own body. He had run his fingers through his own _hair_. He'd placed his head in his own _lap_. And when he thinks of the liberties he'd taken with Hubert's body behind closed doors the previous evening—when no one was there to watch him, where no one could possibly know what he had done—

Well. The day is fresh and new and lovely; there are certain things that must be left behind. At the very least, he can do the bare minimum to repay his sins against Hubert's body by caring for it in the way that Hubert resolutely refuses to do.

Ferdinand stands up and Hubert's shins and ankles twinge mournfully. A subconscious grimace forces its way onto his face. He's suggested to Hubert time and time again that the amount of rest he is getting is insufficient, that he refuses to eat enough, that his general lack of physical fitness is appalling, but to feel it firsthand—the exhaustion swirling through Hubert's veins and the headache pulsing behind his eyes—fails to make him feel the vindication that a victory in their arguments would usually bring.

What is it that keeps Hubert up late night after night after night? It is for duty's sake, surely, but if the work is for the empire—for Edelgard's empire, _their_ empire, then why does Hubert continue to work in private? There have been countless days where he simply waved Ferdinand out of his office for the evening and insisted that he was capable of finishing any remaining tasks. Hubert is a workaholic, and that is no secret, but to push himself to such physical deterioration when Ferdinand is available and willing to assist leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

Does Hubert really still consider him to be incompetent and untrustworthy, even after half a decade of war and his subsequent appointment as Prime Minister?

The thought leaves Ferdinand uneasy, and only doubles his resolve to do _something_ to take care of Hubert's body in his absence. Perhaps dealing with his hand cramps and muscle pain? He's all too used to righting his own soreness as a cavalry soldier—this is something he can do, an indelible benefit for Hubert even after they return to their rightful bodies.

He groans as he begins by sinking into a shallow stretch to open up the tense muscles of his hamstrings. Ferdinand can only hold it for about ten seconds—oh, _Hubert_ —but he's determined enough to repeat the stretch twice more before moving on to his calves and his ankles. His back is next, followed fastidiously by his arms, wrists, and fingers. When he finally manages to loosen the deep-set knots from Hubert's neck and shoulders, Ferdinand vows to personally resolve the situation with his own hands should Hubert ever work himself to such an extreme state of stiffness again.

Assuming, that is, that Hubert will still allow Ferdinand to touch him once this curse is broken and their bodies are reverted. Hubert may have treated him cordially the past few years—as an accepted acquaintance, of sorts, if not a dear friend—but he still shies away in the same manner as a frightened horse when presented with anything more substantial than a handshake. Outside of yesterday's extenuating circumstances, he can't recall the last time Hubert's willingly accepted any kind of physical affection. 

If Hubert were to let Ferdinand touch him—if Hubert were to let Ferdinand _really_ touch him, in all the places he's been aching to ever since the third year of the war—

He realizes he's blushing again, a slow, sick crawl from behind his ears down the back of his neck that somehow manages to avoid his gaunt cheeks entirely. He's been doing it far too often in Hubert's body—at the very least, it's not nearly as obvious as it would be on his own rosier features. But he can't _help_ it. Whenever Ferdinand catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror or a window and sees the striking color of Hubert's eyes or the sharp angles of his face, he blushes. Whenever he attempts to emulate the low, sinister shiver of Hubert's voice while speaking, he blushes. He even blushed yesterday while standing next to his own body, simply because he realized how easy it would be to press Hubert's height advantage against himself. 

_Goddess, saints, and apostles._ Hubert is surely going to kill him or chain him up in some unsavory dungeon once this mess is set to rights—Ferdinand is painfully and obviously in love with him, and he hasn't been this worked up since he was an overbearing teenager on the wrong side of puberty. Every step of his usual morning routine seems to send him spiraling down a new enticing line of highly inappropriate fantasies. The sight of Hubert's bare chest as he dresses himself, for example. The ancient scar of a bite left by far too many teeth on Hubert's forearm. The scent of Hubert's favorite well-worn jacket, riddled with the metallic ozone of magic and undercut by chlorine and coffee.

Ferdinand manages to do up the buttons with shaking hands before he can become completely undone by the sight of Hubert's long fingers without his usual gloves on. Once fully dressed, he has to take a moment to shake his head and clear his unsightly thoughts; his brain violently ricochets around the walls of his skull in a blindingly painful reminder of his newly acquired caffeine addiction.

"Very well. Coffee it is, then," he mutters to himself ominously in front of the mirror as he fixes his hair. The opera performers he's befriended claim that practice makes perfect, and he's spent countless hours helping Dorothea get into character for the roles that she plays. Is this really so different? He corrects his posture— _Slouch a bit more_ , Edelgard had commanded—and affects an expression of malevolent disdain. _There_. Certainly and without question, that is Hubert.

"Lady Edelgard, I would have gotten you a bracelet made of bones for your birthday this past summer had more sensible minds not dissuaded me from such a wretched idea," he says to the mirror, before adding, "Ferdinand convinced me otherwise." And then, rather self-indulgently, he continues, "I love you very much, Ferdinand."

And _oh_ , that cuts too sharply through his well-polished defenses. Ferdinand feels hot all over—anxious and prickling at first, then a bit light-headed. His heart does a sad little somersault in the cavity of his chest.

It is only with great effort that he is able to force himself to turn away from his reflection and leave the room.

Once he acquires coffee, he'll be well-equipped to meet up with Hubert. They'll work together to find a cure—they'll fix this in the same manner that they've torn apart every issue that's ever stood in the empire's way. Then Hubert will have his body back; Ferdinand will have his. Ferdinand will smother his feelings quietly, no longer wasting his time mesmerizing himself with disconcerting words that Hubert would never truly say.

Everything will be as it should be.

———

A tiny purple whirlwind in gardening boots and thick gloves corners Ferdinand outside of Hubert's office.

"So it's true, then," she accuses him dolefully. "You're not _really_ away. You're just lying again, like you always do." 

"Bernadetta," responds Ferdinand, as smoothly as he can in Hubert's iced-over sepulchral tones. Then he freezes.

He's… not quite sure of the relationship that Hubert and Bernadetta share, to be honest. Ferdinand gets along adequately with Bernadetta in his own body—an effort that took years in the making, given her reclusivity and anxious tendencies—but he cannot pretend that they are exceptionally close. He is an extroverted person, after all. Perhaps a touch too grandiloquent. Bernadetta no longer runs at the mere sight of his approach, but their hobbies remain dissimilar enough that he is doubtful when it comes to how she spends her free time.

Or _who_ she spends that time with. Hubert has opened up to Ferdinand a surprising amount over tea since the end of the war, but it's taken the careful alternation of insolence, argument, and flattery to prise any sort of personal information out of him. It is obvious that he treats his feelings towards matters unrelated to Edelgard as closely guarded secrets.

Obvious, and altogether _frustrating_. Hubert has never mentioned Bernadetta once to Ferdinand—how is he supposed to know how to act in this conversation? He opens his mouth to improvise an excuse to leave, but Bernadetta verbally barrels over him.

"Even if you're lying and avoiding me I won't let you do it! I'm stronger now. Um. You can't scare me! I mean, you can, but it won't work. Actually, it will work, but—"

" _Bernadetta_ ," Ferdinand says again, and she makes a terrified little squeak and falls completely silent. "I am not avoiding you." He crosses his arms over his chest as he has seen Hubert do and taps his gloved fingers against the sleeve of his jacket. _Left-handed_ , he is reminded for the umpteenth time. _Hubert is left-handed._ Rather fitting for the left hand of the emperor. Were Ferdinand right-handed instead of ambidextrous, they would be a perfectly matched pair.

The thought brings another unfortunate flush to his skin. _Saints damn it_. Bernadetta clears her throat, and Ferdinand realizes that he's been looming over her ominously in dead silence for the last several seconds.

"Could you remind me of the nature of your grievance?" he finally ventures.

"I-I'm not mad at you. I understand if you're mad at me, but I'm not mad at you!" Bernadetta says in a rush, before frantically adding, "I'm sorry. You were doing a really good job. I didn't mean to laugh at you. It was cruel and mean and horrible and awful of me to act like that, so if you've come to kill me, just make it quick, will you?"

That doesn't help in the slightest, so Ferdinand tilts his head—his dark hair falling away from his eye—and speaks as levelly as he can. "You sought me out at my office. How could I have _possibly_ come to kill you when you were the one who initiated this conversation?"

"Well, um," Bernadetta says, and then she brightens immensely, the sun coming out behind a cloud, and says "Oh!"

"Indeed," says Ferdinand, his tone affably sinister. It's a perfect replication of Hubert's polite response whenever Ferdinand brings up something that Hubert is uninterested in and does not wish to talk about—the opera, perhaps, or the maintenance of antique weapons.

Ferdinand figures it serves its purpose equally well now, when he has absolutely no idea what is going on.

"…If that is all, I will be going," he continues. He fishes for excuses and realizes Hubert has never offered a polite justification for exiting a conversation in his life, so he settles on, "Lady Edelgard requires my presence."

"B-before you go," Bernadetta stutters out, twisting her hands in the fabric of her gardening smock, "if you want to try knitting again sometime? With me? I'll—I'll teach you howtopurlsocomestopbyagainsoon! Thanks Hubert bye!"

She's bright red as she pushes her hands into his back and shoves him forcefully down the hallway in the direction of Edelgard's office. Ferdinand is left with far more questions than answers. _Hubert knits with Bernadetta? Hubert knits_ ** _poorly_** _with Bernadetta?_ He has to bring his gloved hand to his mouth to smother an undignified laugh as he knocks on the door to Edelgard's chambers. It is followed by an astonishing rush of tenderness; he finds that he cannot keep a genuine smile from playing across his lips.

He is completely and utterly sunk.

———

"Ferdinand, I assume," says Edelgard as soon as he enters her office. "You may take a seat on the sofa as long as you keep your hands lifted where I can see them."

She sets her pen down on the varnished wood of the desk and stares at him coldly until he complies.

"Edelgard," Ferdinand asks far more gently than he usually would, "What business have you and Hubert involved yourself in? What enemies have you made that worry you so? Any magic that involves souls is on a near unprecedented level of power—yet you have treated the situation as an understandable threat, one you have already created a contingency plan for." He takes a deep, jagged breath. "What is it that lurks in the empire's shadows?"

Edelgard cuts him off as he speaks.

"Two nights after the war's final battle at Fhirdiad, on our return journey to Enbarr, you behaved appallingly after setting up camp. What did you do?"

Ferdinand sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose in a decidedly un-Hubert-like gesture. "I got remarkably drunk and laid across the floor of someone's tent with my head in your lap. I believe I wept there into your skirts until I passed out."

"And why were you crying, Ferdinand?" Edelgard asks frostily.

"At first, it was because I finally understood I would never be in love with you," he admits sheepishly. "We would never marry, and there would never be an opera created about us. Foolish, I know," he adds hastily, and holds up his hand to stop her when she tries to interject. "But—please hear me out, Edelgard. Once I realized that, I suddenly comprehended the full extent of what we had accomplished. We had all lived—we had genuinely achieved what we set out to do, and there _could_ be an opera, there _would_ be an opera, even if the subject matter was not what I originally envisioned."

He blinks away the tears that are rapidly welling up in his eyes. "I wept for the sheer idea of a new, unified nation created with our own hands. _We_ made it, Edelgard. Together, all of us. Every member of our class."

Edelgard softens, the tension finally leaving her taut shoulders. "Overly sentimental as always," she says fondly. "There should be a handkerchief in your jacket pocket. Use that to wipe your eyes—you're making Hubert look ridiculous."

Ferdinand nods. He lowers his hands and rummages through his pockets, setting aside a switchblade knife, a glowing crystal, and a handkerchief stained a horrible black before he manages to produce a clean cloth. He dabs at his eyes and lets out a shaky little laugh. 

"Forgive me, Edelgard," he apologizes. "Not only for soaking your second-best battle skirts with tears that night, but for making Hubert look and act foolishly in front of you as well."

Edelgard involuntarily smiles at that. It's a rare expression for her, one bordering on mischievous. "At the very least, I find it to be an exciting change of pace. I can't say that Hubert's ever refused to let me interrupt him before."

"Then permit me an additional assassination of his character," says Ferdinand. "I will speak bluntly in a way he has never done." He stares seriously at Edelgard from across the room— _has she always been this small?_ —and fixes her with his most threatening gaze. "Edelgard, tell me why Hubert and I have found ourselves in this situation in the first place. Tell me who or what is behind this. Allow me to assist you, as is my duty as Prime Minister. _Let me help._ "

Edelgard nods very, very slowly. "You have every right to know," she says softly. "Once this situation has been remedied, I will speak to Hubert. There is no need to keep you in the dark any longer."

Ferdinand nods back just as tentatively, just as slowly. "Thank you, Edelgard," he says quietly. "I swear to you, I will—"

There's a low thrumming hum, followed by an unexpected increase in the air pressure of the room. Ferdinand, distracted, reaches to massage his suddenly aching sinuses, and then stops dead as his own body materializes next to him on the couch in a crackle of amethyst fire and ozone.

"Lady Edelgard," Hubert greets. He picks up the crystal Ferdinand had previously discovered while emptying Hubert's pockets. He folds his fingers around it, and Ferdinand watches his eyes shine a brief, disconcerting violet before the color fades. When Hubert sets the crystal back down, it is no longer glowing.

"…Good afternoon, Ferdinand," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"What? No," says Ferdinand, suddenly furious. He stares down into his own eyes, looms over himself as threateningly and malevolently as he can. "You are not—you cannot—materializing in the middle of—that is _my_ body—what have you been _doing to it?!_ "

And goddess save his immortal soul, even sitting like _that_ has an effect on him. Hubert is taller than Ferdinand is, and if Ferdinand leaned in just so—if he brought his hand up to stroke his own cheek—Hubert, in Ferdinand's body, would have to tilt his lips up to kiss him. The thought blisters his veins, corrodes him, leaving him warm and flushed and completely—

_No_. Ferdinand thinks to himself with great effort. Kissing himself would be…odd, at best. Depraved, at worst. It's an entirely perplexing and strange thought; he's not quite sure where it came from. He takes a deep breath, steepling his fingers together and pressing them beneath his chin. "Hubert, we have been over this. I am not a vessel for your dark magic."

Hubert, at the very least, has the decency to look moderately ashamed. He stares at the carpet, twirling one finger over and over through a lock of orange hair. It's one of Ferdinand's subconscious tells, and he feels a hot, pleasurable spike of guilt that he's able to read Hubert so easily.

"I apologize," Hubert says. "You are free to believe what you will. This was, however, an isolated incident."

"Isolated?" Ferdinand asks. "What do you mean?"

Hubert tugs the long curl of hair between his fingers and winces. "Dorothea was insistent in her plan to join you for lunch. Once she realized something was… _off_ , I was unable to escape the situation through conventional means."

"It is a shame that I was not present," says Ferdinand. "I would have liked to see your best impersonation of myself."

"You would not have," Hubert replies. He turns back to face Edelgard, and Ferdinand notes his cheeks are tinged pink with embarrassment. "My lady," he says. "If you are not presently occupied, please allow me to borrow my, ah, body. I have prepared a second set of solutions to test."

"You're both dismissed," says Edelgard curtly. She gestures her hand at both of them to shoo them out of her office.

As Ferdinand opens the door to leave, he notices that Hubert has yet to follow him. He's still seated on the sofa—Edelgard is _smiling_ at him. She quirks one corner of her mouth and raises her eyebrows nearly imperceptibly, and Hubert says, vehemently, " _No._ " 

Then he stands in one fluid moment and sweeps out of the room, one hand firm on the small of Ferdinand's back to guide him out the door alongside him. 

———

They wind up in Hubert's office this time, but not before Ferdinand is able to return to his own quarters and collect a pile of legal documents that needs to be marked with revisions. When Hubert isn't looking, he slips a tin of tea beneath the stack—Ferdinand is well-acquainted with his own particular tastes, and equally well-acquainted with the fact that Hubert will mindlessly keep brewing coffee regardless of the body he inhabits until the day he dies.

"Hubert," he says as he hangs the kettle over the fire, "how worried should I be about my next conversation with Dorothea?"

"Moderately," Hubert admits with great reluctance. "I am not an actor, and the attempt was dismal."

"I spoke with Bernadetta," says Ferdinand. "The two of you seem to get along well." He turns to face the fire—away from Hubert, so he can no longer see the tenderhearted expression etched over his own facial features. Ferdinand laces his arms behind his back and adds quietly, "I would like to see your knitting projects, if you are ever willing to show me."

"One step at a time," says Hubert. "Resolving our predicament comes first."

"That is not a no," Ferdinand says warmly.

"It is not," Hubert replies in a soft voice.

Ferdinand stands there dry-mouthed and horribly unsure how to respond until the kettle whistles. Then he busies himself: tea in one cup, coffee in the other. He carries both back to the table where Hubert has laid out his books and pens and fresh parchment.

"The tea is for you," he says as he sets it down in front of him. "It is one of my favorites."

"Your agenda is incorrigible," Hubert mutters as he lifts the cup and saucer. "I am not fond of tea. I will _never_ be fond of tea. I—"

He pauses at the scent of the steam rising from the teacup before taking a slow, cautious sip. " _Oh,_ " he breathes, and his expression is _reverent._

Ferdinand beams at him.

"Perhaps," Hubert says levelly, "I will entertain the idea of finishing this cup. _After_ we methodically test each and every potential solution I have uncovered thus far."

"Drink while you work," says Ferdinand, concealing the smug edges of his smile behind his own cup of coffee. "I brought five more varieties."

" _Five_ ," says Hubert with a faint note of incredulity. He shakes his head in disbelief, as if to clear it, and then takes another appreciative sip from his teacup before setting it aside. "Very well," he says, tying Ferdinand's hair back from his face with a length of velvet ribbon. "Let's begin."

———

Ferdinand runs out of tea to brew four hours into Hubert's experiments.

He turns to Hubert—murmuring ancient words and pacing the floor in a careful, measured perimeter, motes of dust swirling around his boots and up his legs as he taps his fingers to the steady beat of an incantation—and he says, "I'm getting more supplies."

Hubert ignores him entirely, which is fair. He continues to chant under his breath as Ferdinand slips from the office.

When Ferdinand returns to the office carrying more tea, a box of cookies, a bottle of ink, and a fresh sheaf of paper, Hubert is still pacing, gloomy violet light glowing in his fingertips and threading its way up his forearms in tiny vein-like streams.

Ferdinand massages his temples in frustration, bites his tongue before he lectures Hubert on his improper and unsanctioned use of his body for high-level dark magic for a second time, and puts the kettle back on.

———

Ferdinand runs out of paperwork to review eight hours into Hubert's experiments.

At this point, Hubert has returned to drawing sigils—long, clean, elegant swooping lines of ink across his pieces of parchment. Every so often he will have Ferdinand place his hand on one. When that fails to produce results, he asks for a few strands of hair. A swab of spit from the inside of his cheek. A fingernail clipping. A pinprick of blood on the page.

Ferdinand lays back in his chair and stares at the dimly lit ceiling as Hubert jabs his fingertip with a needle for the third time, deeply considering restructuring the entirety of Fodlan's tax code to better aid the poor just so he'll have something to _do_.

———

Ferdinand runs out of patience once nearly twelve hours have elapsed.

"Hubert," he says with no small amount of irritation. Next to him, Hubert—drooling gently on the pages of the book he's currently dozed off on top of—jolts upwards with a start.

"It is well past midnight," he continues. "Pardon my bluntness, but despite your best efforts you are still inhabiting my body. It is time for you to _sleep_."

Hubert blearily wipes his eyes and mutters, "I am more than capable of overcoming minor exhaustion. Perhaps if you were not such a day lark—"

"Bed," says Ferdinand. "Now."

He winces at the harsh, unexpected irascibility of his tone. "That is—I mean. Well. We have both had a long day. Allow me to escort you back to my chambers."

"There is no need for that," Hubert says as he marks his place in the book and rises to his feet. "I remember every step of your overly elaborate skincare routine."

"Are you sure?" Ferdinand asks. "It is no trouble for me to assist you."

Hubert flushes at that, a lurid unexpected shade of pink crawling across his cheeks. "I am extremely sure."

"If you insist," Ferdinand says dubiously. "In that case, I will see you tomorrow."

"Yes," says Hubert. "Tomorrow." He sketches the barest suggestion of a bow that Ferdinand's ever seen—limbs stiffly awkward and expression completely unreadable—before he departs.

———

The night sky is dark and cold and splashed with swathes of glittering stars. Ferdinand, staring up at it from one of the palace's highest balconies, finds sleep to be the furthest thing from his mind. Hubert is a night owl; he is entirely used to thriving during these hours. It is no wonder that Ferdinand cannot stop his thoughts from racing.

_Hubert, idly twirling his fingers through a lock of orange hair over and over and over again._

_Hubert, pressing his hand intimately against Ferdinand's back to lead him out of the room._

_Hubert, staring up at him, disbelief and delight in his eyes as he took his first sip of tea._

Ferdinand sighs.

In each and every case he finds it is impossible to separate himself from Hubert within his memories. Hubert's expressions and actions, but Ferdinand's visage, his body language—the two of them have blended together irreparably in a fascinating simulacrum.

He's not _vain_. He hasn't truly been since before the war.

But whenever he thinks of his own face, he finds his heart beats just a bit faster.

_Enough idle rumination_ , Ferdinand chides himself. He turns on his heel to return indoors, when—

There are suddenly arms curling around him from behind, a knife held gently to his throat like a kiss.

"Vestra," purrs a voice against his ear, syrupy-dark and dripping with malice. "I've been waiting years for my revenge." The knife cuts a hair deeper, drawing a delicate line of blood across his neck. "You and your _precious_ emperor took _everything_ from my family. You'll both pay with your life."

Ferdinand's mind panics. Hubert has enemies— _of course_ he has enemies—and to stand here outside alone in the dead and silent hours of the night, as a completely vulnerable target, is possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done. It _will_ be the stupidest thing he's ever done, because now he's going to die here and Hubert will remain trapped in his body forever, loathing him more with each year that passes. Oh, _Sothis_. The sharp edge of the knife bears down harder against his skin, and—

Ferdinand moves on his own before he even realizes what he's doing. He's done this a hundred times before. No, a thousand times. It's easier than breathing, than _thinking_ , than surfacing from sleep. There's a knife up his sleeve and suddenly it's in his hand—his _left_ hand, there's magic brushing up against his right like a well-loved cat—and it's the simplest and most straightforward thing to slash open the assassin's arm. The knife clatters to the ground; Ferdinand spins his attacker around to face him and plunges his hand wreathed in spellwork and shadows into their heart. He _pushes_ with something more than himself—

The assassin crumples dead upon the flagstones.

The only sound is Ferdinand's harsh jagged breathing as it echoes in the silence.

He doesn't know how to even _begin_ explaining this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good god. it's been three months. hello. I tried finishing this for cringetober (day 29: Just Standing There), but as you can see, it's now november. maybe the real cringe was missing the deadline completely….


End file.
